


Elder Blossoms

by mautadite



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Other, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7081174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pathway up to their house is bordered by two messy lines of bright orange morning bursts. <i>Kael’renis</i>, in the ancient tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elder Blossoms

**Author's Note:**

> Post-war quarian/geth relationships is something that fascinates me endlessly, and so this is my effort of putting some more of that content into the world, with the help of my favourite admiral. Originally I planned for this to be porn; it turned into fluff because I am who I am.

The pathway up to their house is bordered by two messy lines of bright orange morning bursts. _Kael’renis_ , in the ancient tongue. A flower that Zaal had read about in texts as a child, considered little more than a weed by their ancestors. Like all plants on Rannoch, they’d grown thickest and best when surrounded by quarians. An absence of three hundred years had almost been enough to choke the little orange blooms out of existence, but not quite. The best agriculturalists from the Civilian Fleet had put their minds to the problem of jumpstarting the flora, with help from the geth, and the results had not been wanting.

Zaal had planted the two straggly rows himself, knee deep in the dirt, dust clogging his filters, sticking deliciously to his face when he’d removed his faceplate in a moment of rare spontaneity. The fortnight’s infection had been worth every mote.

He lets himself into the house, boots clicking lightly on the tiles of the decontamination chamber. The lights are bright, horrendously so in the wake of the scorching sun outside, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Ramhiel to dim them. Before he can get the word out, the phosphorene white glare is lowered to a faint glow. Zaal smiles.

His feet feel light as he steps into the main foyer. The snick of the lock behind him echoes through the empty halls. They haven’t done much in the way of decorating yet. The halls still bear the unmistakable smells of new construction, the walls as sleek and sturdy as steel. Large bay windows face out upon the open desert with its dusty plateaus and rocky cliffs, the wind gusting through the vegetation. It is tranquil. He still finds it so strange to live without the constant motion and activity of a ship, but out here, Zaal feels like the world moves with him. This is where his heart is. 

The skyscraper in the capital, a suite of rooms for each admiral, is a necessity; it is where they conduct all matters of business and state. Stages one through four of the cities-wide canvassing and clean-up have been completed, and the relocation had only months ago begun in force. Lifetimes ago, quarians had spread all across Rannoch in different tribes, with customs, dialects and languages of their own, billions of bright souls in a global network. Now, they anticipate being able to comfortably house the entire quarian population in four cities, within a radius of a few thousand square miles. More than comfortably. Of course, there are the inevitable ships and families looking to venture off, reclaim lost lands and property, and the captains have been coordinating their efforts feverishly.

All this and more, the Admiralty oversees. The work is relentless, massive, all-consuming. When a foundation has been struck to shambles, each new brick of the rebuilding feels like a century’s worth of work. 

There are some benefits to being both an admiral and a war hero (although more than a year later, the nightmares still creep like claws at the back of his neck, and Zaal has trouble seeing himself as anything other than a man who let his entire crew die so that he could be saved). The work on this house had been commissioned in his first spare moments after the Landing, fifteen months ago. It is small, and it is secluded, and now, it is theirs.

Zaal seals his suit from the neck down, then leaves his helmet and his faceplate on the side table near the entrance. He shakes the coils of his hair free, rubbing his scalp absently. The feelers on his cheekbones lick the air as he makes a straight line for the kitchen.

Ramhiel is at the counter, standing still, optic trained on the datapad in front of them. Zaal is used to it by now, these periods of intense concentration; how still they can be, how very little noise they need or wish to make, how quickly they can go from inaction to movement. He passes by them on his way to the refrigerator, patting one of the coils at their hips. They give a gentle chirrup in reply, faceplates shifting, but otherwise remain immobile. 

It’s only until after he’s downed half a bottle of water and is rooting around for yesterday’s leftovers that he feels Ramhiel come up behind him. Zaal turns, and finds himself in their arms, warm and close. They’ve dimmed their optic, and one of their fingers comes up to touch the base of Zaal’s neck; a gesture of affection that he mirrors with a smile. 

“Zaal. You are one hundred and seven minutes in advance of your projected arrival time.”

“We came to an early end today, and thank the ancestors for it,” he replies dryly. “Another minute of hearing Xen and Han go at each other’s throats and I’d have voluntarily resigned my post.”

“Unlikely,” Ramhiel says, very matter-of-fact. Zaal has to chuckle, and stands on the tip of his toes to kiss their shoulder plate.

“Well you’ve got me there, dear one.”

Ramhiel’s plates shift in what Zaal has come to know as their version of a smile. It’s strange; the emotion of contentedness is conveyed as much through sound as through the arrangement of their fixtures, but he has little trouble deciphering their meaning. He owes that to years of observation, probably, and a simple willingness to see. It’s amazing what can be discovered with eyes wide open. It’s a lesson that many quarians (and geth) have yet to learn.

“Regardless, I am glad of your early arrival,” they say, pulling away after one last caress to his cheek. Zaal gives them a fond look. He had briefly contemplated heading to the Admiralty’s gun range, get two sessions in this week instead of one, but the pull of home had been too strong.

“So am I.” He turns back to the refrigerator to continue hunting after something to eat. If he leaves the doors open too long they start making that dinging sound that Ramhiel hates. (‘Deeply prefers not to hear’ is the way they put it.) “What about you? How was your day?”

“Left side, third compartment, next to the intacas. It was pleasing. Haji’Nara and I took the children on a small excursion into the fields after Amni reported seeing a small animal through the window.”

Zaal raises his brows as he kicks the doors to the fridge closed, and prepares to heat up his meal. Amni is a precocious little girl; she features often in Ramhiel’s stories about his students. They’re back at the table, sitting this time.

“Did she? See an animal, I mean.”

“Statistically impossible.” One of the newer phrases in their arsenal; when Zaal had first met them, they, like most geth, would have given the exact probability of such an encounter. “The outing was fruitful nevertheless. The children reviewed their knowledge of the flora in the valley, and drew pictures of their findings. I was able to cover a few things on the syllabus that would not have come up for six and a half weeks, while the children were under the impression that the excursion was a break from the tedium of schoolwork.”

“Win-win, then,” Zaal says, setting his plate down at the table and pulling up a stool opposite them.

“And learn-learn,” they inform him. He laughs. 

“Oh? What did you learn, then?”

“That it would be profitable to listen to Amni’s suggestions more often.”

Zaal laughs again, and Ramhiel chirrups softly in return.

Ramhiel is not the first geth to be appointed as a teacher in the new public schools, but they are, in Zaal’s considerably biased opinion, one of the best. They’re wonderful with the children; patient, kind, a tireless answer for every question. And they _like_ doing it. There are many practical reasons why the geth make good educators, reasons that had been the pivotal point in getting the captains and other admirals to agree on the launching of this venture, reasons that are surely factors in its success. But Ramhiel accepted the job because they’re good at it, and it makes them happy. 

Three hundred years ago, when the Koris clan was making textiles on the western continent, the platforms that would become Ramhiel were a few domestic units and a laboratory assistant. Their master was imprisoned for noncompliance when the war was just beginning, but they were saved from destruction by the factory working geth that took up arms to protect the rest of the household. They weren’t issued their current platform until much, much later. While Zaal watched Tali’Zorah leave on her pilgrimage, Ramhiel was being transferred to a hunter unit. While Zaal and the Admiralty bickered about Saren, Ramhiel was sent to man one of the many new outposts on northern Rannoch. While the geth known as Legion uploaded the code that would change all of their lives, Zaal and Ramhiel sat in orbit on opposing sides, one awaiting orders, one hoping against all hope.

When Zaal landed on Rannoch for the second time, and made a beeline straight for the remnants of the Qwib-Qwib, Ramhiel was one of the geth who approached, cautiously, to lend aid.

As far as beginnings go, Zaal thinks they’re both pretty lucky. They’ve covered so much ground together; now, it’s always bright in their house.

He eats quickly, not realising how ravenous he’d actually been. They’d ended up working through the noon meal back at the capital, debating the finer points of one of Xen’s proposed experiments. The war had tamed her, somewhat, but Zaal still has his hands full on a daily basis trying to ensure that she isn’t attempting to implement something diabolical. Today, however, she had been focused primarily on defence, and so it was with Han that she stubbornly butted heads.

Ramhiel is still working with their datapad, staying still for long moments, sometimes bringing up a hand to type in long streams. Geth can do a lot in their spare moments, and Ramhiel uses theirs to extrapolate data that one of the geth exploration teams sends them. 

“Working?” Zaal asks, cutting into the last bit of his casserole.

“Among other things. Ruth sends greetings.”

“Send mine back. How are they adjusting?”

“Well. I anticipate that their probationary period will end five days earlier than expected.”

“Good to hear.”

Ruth is a new geth teacher at Ramhiel’s school. Ramhiel has been working with them to ensure ease of transition. The school has the best reputation in the valley, and the administration aims to keep it so, attract more students, prove the functionality of inclusion. Many quarian parents still refuse to have their children taught by the geth, but bit by bit, person by person, they’re working away at the chinks. 

But right now, they don’t have to think about work. It’s the end of the week, and his first completely free weekend in what feels like months. The Admiralty won’t reconvene until the day after prayer day, when they’re due to meet with the Primes, so Zaal has three days to himself, and two with Ramhiel.

He scarfs down the last bit of his food, and swallows too fast. He reaches for a glass of water, too late realises that he didn’t get himself one, and is left to pound at his chest, coughing.

Ramhiel is at his side at the first sputter.

“Zaal…! Are you all right? Should I…?” Already, their hands are reaching to dislodge the cables that will link them to his suit, and their optic has gone wider and brighter with alarm. 

“No, no, no, dear heart, I’m fine.” He waves them off, batting at their hands with his own. “I only swallowed wrong.”

“Are you certain?” They remain where they are, a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, quite. I haven’t had an infection in months. Check the room for contaminants, if you think it necessary.”

They do. In the few seconds that it takes them to run a diagnostic, Zaal rubs at his chest through the suit ruefully. He’s done it now.

“Clear,” Ramhiel says eventually. Their faceplates close in, but still rustle with their anxiety.

“As I knew it would be.” He puts on his most reassuring smile.

“Negative. It would not be possible for you to be certain…” 

“I know, Ramhiel.” Zaal pats their shoulder placatingly. “An ill choice of words. If you must fuss over me dear, could you get me a glass of water please?”

Their compliance is swift. Zaal sips gratefully from the straw while they look on with a watchful eye. 

There have been a few deaths, here and there. Very tragic, most of all because of how easily they could have been avoided. A few quarians, not wanting to undergo the necessary procedures and treatment and cooperation with the geth, had gone about without their suits in the open air for weeks at a time. To so many, the surrealism of being on Rannoch, the fabled home world, was enough to erase a lifetime of fearful hypervigilance. They had paid most dearly for their haste. The luckiest among them became gravely ill, with all manner of new infections that were alien to quarian doctors. Help came too late for the unluckiest of them. 

Ramhiel has been a bit fussy ever since they heard. It’s very sweet. 

They remain standing next to his stool while he drinks steadily away at the glass of water. They don’t fidget; it isn’t something that the geth know how to do. But everything about their demeanour suggests it. Zaal smiles into the glass, then pats them on the hip.

“Would it make you feel better if I got my helmet and put it back on?”

He will, if it allays their fears. It will be a couple years before the quarian race can live as they once did on Rannoch, and until then, they still rely on their suits. And probably always will, to some extent. Advancements thus far have rendered them capable of surviving outside of the suits within controlled environments such as their homes and offices, but most quarians remain mired in what they know, wearing the suits fulltime when outside of the company of family and close friends. Zaal included. 

For better or worse, their suits are now part of their lives, their very culture. That is something that will take more than a few years to change. 

Ramhiel seems to consider his suggestion seriously.

“No, it would not,” they finally say. They sound resigned, and just the tiniest bit sheepish. “I know that you derive satisfaction and comfort from being able to go without your suit at home. I am also aware that donning your helmet and mask at this point will neither negatively nor positively impact your health. I do not wish to bring you to discomfort simply to assuage my own worries.”

Zaal curls a hand around the scarred coil at their neck affectionately. 

“It’s good of you to worry at all, Ram.”

They tilt their head. “Good of me? Do you find pleasure in my anxiety, then?”

It’s not the reply he expected; Zaal blinks, looking up at them, and wonders for a split second how to explain. Then he notices the little rustle of their plates and laughs, shoving at them. They don’t budge, of course, but chirrup back at him softly.

“I don’t know how I always manage to forget that you fancy yourself funny,” he says, taking his dishes to the sink. 

“I thought levity would be useful.”

“Of course you did.” He shakes his head, still chuckling. “And you’re going to continue to worry anyway, even though we must keep the most sterile house on Rannoch.”

“Yes,” they admit.

“Well, come on,” Zaal says, sitting back down at the table. “Let’s take that brilliant mind of yours off of the non-issue of my health. We’ve got two free days ahead of us. What shall we do with them?”

Ramhiel likes to coordinate their schedule together. They would do it down to the minute if they thought Zaal wanted it. At first, Zaal had attributed that facet of their personality to their synthetic nature, and the need for a controlled, tightly organised agenda. Months of learning and observing have taught him different. Ramhiel enjoys thinking of the future, having things to look to with anticipation. They like looking forward.

They collect the datapad from the other side of the table, purely for Zaal’s benefit.

“Weather forecasts for the next few days are favourable,” they say, pulling up a detailed report. “Mainly sunny, with broken clouds, and scattered showers during the crepuscule hours of prayer day. It would be a good time to start work on the back garden.”

“Ah, good idea.” Zaal taps a few buttons on the pad to bring up the pages he needs. “I’ve been putting some thought into it lately, actually; buying seeds, trying to plan it out. What do you think of these?”

Ramhiel looks at the images on the screen.

“The dust roses are a viable option, but not in such close proximity to the starlights. They would choke each other out. Dust roses would also require significantly more attention than you or I would be able to provide, given the amount of time we spend away from home. And I am afraid this region is too arid for the myals.”

Zaal drums his fingers on the table with a little huff. “I didn’t put _enough_ thought into it, obviously.”

“You would have, given the time.”

“Hm. What could we substitute for the dust roses?”

“Dreambuds should be sufficient,” Ramhiel says, after a moment of contemplation. Zaal leans back in his chair, wondering.

“Could we get the purple strain?”

“Rarer, but not impossible to come by. I will contact Ruth. They may be able to help us in procuring it.”

Ruth had once been an agricultural unit here in the southlands, Zaal knows. 

“I’d be grateful. What do you think about kael’renis to replace the myals? Too much?”

“I do not think so.”

They bend heads over the datapad, sussing out a few more of the finer points. As admiral of the Civilian Fleet, Zaal had spent a fair bit of time aboard the liveships. It is a delicate and exact science, agriculture in space; reaping and sowing enough to keep an entire species afloat. Quarians also relied quite heavily on trade and commerce, but if those ever broke down, the three liveships had to produce enough to ensure survival.

After that, to engage in light gardening, to plant a seed just for the pleasure of seeing it grow seems frivolous, but it’s one of the things that Zaal enjoys best. He’s never before had the luxury of a hobby. The fact that it’s one that he can share with Ramhiel is a further boon. Ram derives a quiet delight from growing things, caring for them and seeing them thrive. In their former life, their duties had been mostly regulated to household chores, but their master, seeing their affinity for and love of the living, had sometimes let them tend the herb trees.

It’s not something that they’ll speak of often, their life on Rannoch in the old days. Like their short-lived military career, it seems to be entangled with a certain set of memories that bring them both strength, and a bitten sort of pain. Like many geth, Ramhiel had taken their name from their own creator (many more had taken them from the quarians who had fought and died for the geth, others from the human religious text that had inspired Legion’s name, still more from words in the ancient tongue). Zaal knows little about the man, save the fact that he had been kind to Ramhiel and his other geth. His gratitude stretches back into the centuries.

Zaal cradles his chin in his palm, watching them. They’re discussing the merits of a small vegetable plot if they have the space, and he’ll agree with them soon enough. He likes looking at them in their quiet enthusiasm, listening to their deep, rumbling voice. He nods at their quickly drawn outlines, then reaches up to touch the back of their neck.

“Do you think we can take the skycar to town, fit in a little shopping? We can get the materials for that new chest piece you’ve been wanting.”

They rumble.

“It is not a priority. The structural integrity of my current piece will continue to hold. The change will be purely cosmetic.”

“Ah, I know. We can do it anyway, can’t we?”

Ram titters in the way of a smile. They are fairly new to cosmetic changes, but they embrace them along with everything else they learn. Their left shoulder plate had once been part of the Qwib-Qwib’s command centre. They’d expressed an interest, months ago when the memorial was being built, and Zaal had been quick to agree before their unique brand of shyness could kick in.

“We could,” they say. “I would enjoy having your input when I procure the materials.”

Zaal smiles.

“It would be my pleasure. I can pick out something for myself as well, I suppose. The Admiralty’s Ball is coming up in a few weeks.”

“Yes. Have you given any thought to what you might wear?”

He makes a face. “No, not in particular.”

“There has been a sixty-seven percent increase in the wearing of traditional _realks_ since the Landing. This would be a good occasion to wear one of your own. Perhaps something that calls back to the roots of the Koris clan would be appropriate.”

“Perhaps.” He isn’t the best at social gatherings, especially when he knows he has to start preparing weeks in advance. Give him the cold clarity of a courtroom or the static chaos of battle any day. “I was thinking of going in the old dress whites. Though of course, if none of the other admirals are wearing theirs, I’ll look like a bit of a tit. Hm. I’ll ask Shala’Raan what she’s doing.”

“That seems prudent,” Ramhiel says. It’s said in a very ‘it is possible that you are thinking too hard about this’ voice, but they’re too kind to actually voice that.

“What about you?” Zaal asks. He doesn’t think he’ll win this argument, but he has to try. “Have you given any more thought to coming with me?”

Ramhiel shifts.

“I have given it extensive thought. And while I find no pleasure in the fact that I will be disappointing you…”

“Well now, I didn’t say it would be a _disappointment_ …”

“…I still have not changed my mind, Zaal.”

He sighs, giving them a lopsided smile.

“Ancestors. Ram, I really don’t see why you won’t come.”

They straighten to their full height, which is considerable even while sitting. It is an ‘I am going to attempt to make you see’ posture if there ever was one.

“I have thoroughly analysed the guest list. While your popularity is considerable among members of the former Civilian Fleet, the Ball is intended to honour fallen members of the Heavy Fleet and Patrol Fleet, and the attendance list reflects that. The political climate is stable at the moment, and quarian-geth relations are at an all-time peak. However, appearing openly together could have a detrimental effect on your—”

“Dear one,” Zaal interrupts wearily, “I pray that you consider that I don’t _care_.”

“I am aware that public opinion is not your main concern,” they say with a little rustle of their faceplates. “I remain convinced that it would be inadvisable for us to attend such a highly publicised event in each other’s company.” 

Zaal sighs again.

He understands, really, what they’re trying to do. They want to protect him. Romantic relationships between quarians and geth aren’t unheard of, and Zaal himself is aware of several other couples in the city. Right off the bat, a surprising number of quarians had been open to what Zaal had been saying for years: the geth are people, a wronged people with grievances and hopes all to their own, brought to full potential after Legion’s actions. The first meetings, the points of contact between two species so torn apart had been tense, but they’ve made huge strides since then. The geth are people, and people fall in love. Some quarians realised that.

Many more quarians, however, are hesitant. Even those who will gladly accept geth aid, gladly render it in return, recognise the geth’s personhood and life; even they frown upon unions closer than friendships. And those are the best of the dissenters. The worst of them see the geth as machines, serfs, mistakes and little else. Three centuries of war and bloodshed, countless deaths on either side, coming within inches of extinction for both species… it’s not going to be quickly mended. The ‘sleeping with the enemy’ mentality is alive and well.

Zaal’s aware of what people think. He doesn’t advertise his relationship with Ramhiel, but he doesn’t hide it either. People find out, or they’re made aware, or they hear whispers, or they spot them in the city. Zaal has heard the murmurs among the techs at work that come to an abrupt halt when he enters the room. He’s noticed the looks he gets, even when alone: fascination, curiosity, animosity, unbridled revulsion. The words ‘geth fucker’ have been keyed across the hood of his skycar on two separate occasions. He knows what people think.

And he doesn’t care. Someone has to be the first to do this in a public way. Zaal has absolutely no desire to be fitted onto a poster or made into a symbol, but he also doesn’t want to hide. He was radical two years ago for even suggesting that the geth were never in the wrong; he can be radical now for openly loving one. 

Or he would, if Ramhiel would let him.

“Are you displeased?” Ramhiel asks with a tilt of their head.

“No, no.” They have their little tiffs, but being truly angry with Ramhiel isn’t something he’s familiar with. “Though I still wish you would reconsider. Are you really going to let a few frowning marines from the Heavy Fleet sway you into not attending?” Ram is right about Zaal’s popularity not extending beyond the Civilian Fleet (he’s heard the jokes about some turian out there missing the stick up his ass because it was confiscated by Admiral Zaal’Koris) but that has never deterred him before.

“Three hundred and ninety eight marines,” Ramhiel clarifies for him, “although I cannot say how many of them will be frowning. As well as seventy-six high ranking military officials, the other four Admirals, as many as five hundred relatives, sixteen geth representatives, various members of the support staff, and an undisclosed number of agents from the press.” 

Zaal has to smile again, even as he shakes his head.

“And I don’t care a whit for any of them.”

“I know. But I still hold that it would be an inadvisable course of action for me to attend.”

“You know,” Zaal says, rapping them mildly on the arm, “you should be flattered that I’m so determined to get you to be my date.”

“Since the inception of our courtship, we have had one hundred and seventeen romantic outings.”

“Oh, go on. You know what I mean.”

They reach across with one of their fingers, giving him a little caress at the side of his neck. “I do.”

“But you still think it best not to come.”

“Yes,” they agree.

Zaal turns his head to kiss the cool palm.

“Does it bother you that I continue to ask about it?”

A little chirp. “Not at all, Zaal.”

“I’m glad. Be prepared then, for me to bring it up again. I am going to inspire a change of heart in you, just you wait. Perhaps not this time around, but for another event in the future. You’ll come around.”

Ramhiel gives a gentle nod of their head, and their light moves with them. “I undoubtedly shall. Things will be different then.”

Zaal captures their hand, the one that still touches his neck with tender affection, and presses it between both of his. 

“It will be different because someone will have made it so.”

Ram looks down at him steadily for seconds on end. Zaal stares back up into that gentle light.

“This means much to you,” they say, with no trace of a question in their voice.

“It does,” Zaal says firmly. “It’s more than not wanting to be alone, or wanting to have a nice evening out with you. I never want you to feel as if you aren’t fit to be seen with me. Not for anything on this beautiful world do I want you to feel that way. And I know,” he continues, forestalling their inevitable interjection, “that you’ll say that isn’t what this is about, but I need you to know that.” 

He’s aware that his voice is going softer and softer with every word, some instinct that he can’t tamp down on, but Ram hears every bit of it. They give a deep, thoughtful twitter, their hand still snug in Zaal’s.

“I will consider it further,” they say at last. Zaal smiles.

“I can ask no more of you, dear heart.”

He doesn’t think that Ramhiel will change their mind, not in time for the Ball next month. But if all he can do is plant a seed, then he will settle for that. There are worse ways to pass the time than waiting for a flower to bloom.

“Well,” he says, getting off of his stool, “we have our weekend all planned, but we still have an entire evening ahead of us. What shall we do with it?”

“I had no specific plans in mind,” Ramhiel confesses. “What would you like to do?”

Zaal pauses for thought.

“I’d actually like a nap,” he says presently. Ram nods, smiling with their entire face.

“That sounds pleasant. Go on ahead; I will be there shortly.”

“Take your time,” Zaal says, and reaches up to kiss them right on the optic, before rubbing their arm and leaving for the bedroom.

It always takes him a while to get out of his suit; he’s spent so many years never removing it except when absolutely needed. Ram usually helps get him out of it of an evening. But he manages soon enough, and steps into the bathroom for a quick shower. The water is soothingly cool, so much so that he contemplates affording himself the luxury of a bath. But the warmth of his bed and Ramhiel are far too much of a lure.

He takes his time towelling off, getting his body and hair as dry as possible, before he slips into a tunic and returns to the bedroom. Ramhiel is there, sitting at the edge of the bed with the hairdryer ready.

They make an efficient job of it, drying the long coils of his hair while he sits between their legs, but also manage to be soothing. Zaal’s hair is at the middle of his back now, pure black, with more than a few streaks of ageing brown running amidst the locks. He rests a hand on their thigh while they work. The metal is cool beneath his naked palm, but by the time Ram is finished, minutes later, it is edging towards warm.

“Remind me to come home earlier more often,” Zaal says, drowsiness making his words snag.

“I will programme an alert onto your datapad,” they say seriously, earning a chuckle.

Together, they get into bed. Zaal curls up next to Ramhiel with an arm slung across their chest plate. They dim their optic to the lowest, and their hand is in Zaal’s hair. He kisses their chest sleepily. Ram has gone into stillness again, but he only needs to be next to them, feel the warmth of their skin and the low murmurs within their breast to know that they are alive. 

Geth do not sleep and nor do they dream. At times like these, Ramhiel puts their body into a light stasis mode. It is a bit like sleep, as Zaal understands it; they settle, they reconvene, they think only little, processing the day’s events. They’ve told him that they do it even when he isn’t here sometimes, on the nights he stays in the capital. A small, intangible point of connection, but Zaal cherishes the thought of it all the same.

Muted sunlight strains through their thick drapes, making Zaal feel drowsier. The desert is doubtless still sweltering outside, and the valley and city beyond it are pulsing with sound and activity, but in their bedroom it is quiet, and the world moves with them. Life is kind. He is making a difference, he is rebuilding their world, there are flowers leading up to his house, and a warm soul stirring besides him. Zaal lets his eyes slide shut. He resolves to make his nap a quick one, so that they can enjoy the rest of the night together.

(He sleeps until early morning, but when he wakes, Ramhiel is there, a bright light before he peels open his eyes.)


End file.
